


Champion

by magisterpavus



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Alien Biology, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst with a Happy Ending, Breathplay, Champion Shiro (Voltron), Face-Sitting, Fluff and Smut, Galra Keith (Voltron), Healing Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Possessive Shiro (Voltron), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Praise Kink, Rough Sex, Self-Esteem Issues, Service Top Keith (Voltron), Shower Sex, Size Kink, Switching, True Love, Trust Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:47:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22961158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magisterpavus/pseuds/magisterpavus
Summary: Takashi Shirogane is the Champion and he's pretty sure he's going to die the Champion.Then an unexpected visitor comes along, with indigo eyes and enough hope for the two of them, who reminds Shiro that some things are worth surviving for.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 33
Kudos: 483





	Champion

**Author's Note:**

> Whew, this was not supposed to be over 10k but HERE WE ARE LOL. I get so easily carried away with Shiro POV :') speaking of which, HAPPY BIRTHDAY SHIRO. I know there's a lot of Pain at the beginning but this is a part of Shiro's character that I'm forever sad was never really explored since I think it adds a lot of complexity and difficulty to his identity, but that's okay, because that means I get to do it haha. I just have a lot of feelings about Shiro & he deserves the world. SO HERE'S THAT.
> 
> (this is the sequel/companion to ["guardian"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22534528) in which future!shiro visits pre-s1!keith, but it's not necessary to read one or the other first; they work as standalones too!)
> 
> [follow me on twitter @saltyshiro for more sheith & shenanigans!](https://twitter.com/saltyshiro)

Shiro misses the stars. 

It doesn’t matter how many bruises he gets here, how many wounds are etched into his skin, how much it hurts to hope, sometimes. (Most of the time.) No, it’s when he starts forgetting the stars that he starts to panic. That’s when he really thinks that maybe, despite his stubborn streak a mile wide and the fast-fading hope that help will come, this place might break him, as it takes and takes and  _ takes  _ from him and Shiro begins to fear that he will never recover any of it. 

In the end, it wasn’t even the amputation that broke him. 

It wasn’t the bloodied slash across his nose, either, nor the worst of the battles. The thing that finally did it was the moment that Sendak showed him Earth, thousands and thousands of light years away, and Shiro realized that he was going to die here, alone, and no one would ever know what happened to him.

Sendak knew it would break him; knew that Shiro’s defiance was not so much a last defense as it was a show, a pantomime of agency. Shiro knows he’s a prisoner here, more than that, he is not human, he is not a person at all, he is the Champion, a cruel weapon wielded against his master’s enemies. 

The Galra said they would give him a new arm, one that would be an even greater weapon than himself; that he had proven his worth as the Champion even with one arm, after they stole his right arm in a haze of violet light and nightmare fuel. Shiro still doesn’t know how they did it; there should have been blood, a wound, a recovery process. But he woke up to an already-scarred stump, and they tossed him back into the arena that same day. He thinks it was that day, anyway, but time here is strange, measured only in his aching body and ragged breaths.

Shiro still doesn’t know how he survived that day, with one arm, the entire right side of his body ringing as if struck, an echo of agony he wasn’t awake for. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. Honestly, Shiro finds himself wishing he was awake for it, unsedated, unmedicated, screaming through the pain. At least then he would have been there for it, and not awoken hollow and fragmented. But maybe that’s all he is now, all he can be. 

He curls into a tighter ball in the corner of his cell. Sendak mentioned finding him more comfortable quarters and Shiro spit in his face. That’s why Sendak showed him Earth, floating infinitely out of reach. Shiro finally saw the stars again, but they weren’t how he remembered. Sendak knew what it would do to Shiro. 

But what Sendak doesn’t know is what Shiro still clings to in the dark, shivering, his right side tingling again, longing for feeling, still straining beyond the wicked numbness. In his head, and sometimes aloud, Shiro whispers prayers. They’re the prayers his grandma always used to say, Buddhist, he thinks. She used to clap while praying too — to ward off evil spirits, according to his grandpa. 

Shiro could use that right now, but he can’t exactly clap, although in his mind’s eye he can see his grandma before the butsudan, her wrinkled hands meeting quick and precise. And her voice...he cannot remember her voice, but he knows it was good. He can’t remember the Holts’ voices, either. For awhile, he heard Matt, calling out to him before they were separated...but Shiro hasn’t seen them since, and in all likelihood, they’re long dead.

The only voice he finds he can remember, or at least know the impression of, is Keith’s. This is what he holds onto in his worst moments. And it’s strange how silly and inconsequential the memories are as they come to him — Keith arguing with him over a comic, or laughing at a bad joke, or just saying his name,  _ Shiro, Takashi. _

After the worst fight yet, Shiro forgot his name. He remembers that forgetting now, tucked into himself as he is, and shakes at the thought. It wasn’t that he had almost lost the fight — that wasn’t what made it bad. It was that he won it so quickly, so easily, and when it was over, for once he felt nothing. No bile rose in his throat, no weight coiled in his belly, no horror flooded his veins. After that fight, if it could even be called that, he just sat in his cell and stared at the wall. 

He thinks Sendak visited him and he thinks he was pleased by the sight of Shiro’s blankness. That’s what he wants, maybe — a shell to shape into his own design.

It was Keith’s voice that finally knocked him out of it. Keith’s voice, soft and defiant as he leaned his head on Shiro’s shoulder and said,  _ “I don’t care that you’re sick, Shiro. That doesn’t change anything. You’re still here, aren’t you? So what do they know?” _

The memory hurt, but in a way that Shiro needed. He’s not sick anymore, no — that’s not quite right. He’s sick in a new way now. They’ve cured him of one illness only to give him one even worse than the first. When he was sick before, it made him weak, but this — this makes him strong. Strong, and empty. Sometimes he finds himself watching the guards and wondering with a calculating, cold rage how easily he could snap their necks if they got close enough. 

Captive things, he thinks, frame the world in simple terms: those behind bars and those who walk free. And all those who walk past his bars are enemies by the mere fact that they are  _ out there, _ and he is  _ in here.  _ He hates them for it; he’s never felt anything so powerful and vicious in his life. It drowns out the grief, the pain, and even the remaining spark of hope in his stubborn, furious, beating heart.

Then he hears Keith’s voice again, when they said goodbye at the launch which feels like a lifetime ago, saying Shiro is  _ kind,  _ and  _ the best man he’s ever known, _ and he’s going to be a  _ hero. _

A hero. Yeah, Shiro doesn’t feel like a hero now, covered in sweat and dried blood, limping back from the arena, the image of Earth floating in a sea of cold stars stuck in his head like a thorn. He tries to hear Keith again, but there’s only the dull pound of his own pulse, blood roaring in his ears. Has he forgotten even this last thing? Will Keith forget him, also? Someday, surely. He thinks Shiro is dead.

Shiro thinks he might be dead, too.

He doesn’t react when the guards throw him into his cell. It’s fucked up, but in a way he’s grown to find comfort in this small room. It affords him some privacy; the guards’ only view inside is through the slotted window on the door. They close the door and the window, plunging him into a subterranean gloom, illuminated only by the flickering violet wall sconces.

Shiro tried to break the sconces to use the metal as weapons early on; he only succeeded in electrocuting himself, or whatever the energy is that they use here. They throw around strange words —  _ quintessence, robeasts, entities. _ They’re just sounds to Shiro. Hollow, fleeting sounds. 

Those words don’t matter. The only words that matter now are the ones in his memories, especially those words spoken by a boy with indigo eyes and wild black hair. But he can’t summon those, anymore.

Laying there, he realizes he’s forgotten what it’s like not to hurt. As he sits up, forces himself to move, he realizes also with a detached fascination that he has a new arm. When did that happen? Before the last fight, maybe, they must have...yes. He remembers now. He used the arm to rip out the other prisoner’s heart. Their blood was blue; it wasn’t even surprising. The crowd loved it. 

God, Shiro hates them.

That’s a good thing about the hate, he muses. It focuses things, a little. A survival mechanism, maybe. He stares down at his right hand, flexing it, the metal fingers curling. He can feel them, but it’s muted, and when he drags his fingertips hard over the rough floor, they don’t scrape or bleed like they should. The metal is hard, maybe indestructible. 

Is that what they plan to turn him into? Bit by bit, piece by piece, until he’s more metal than man. 

Shiro recoils at the prospect even as he knows there’s nothing he could do to stop it. He can’t activate the arm’s weaponry in here; they have some unseen restraint on it. He can only use it when they want him to. Of course.

The hate churns hotter, sharper inside him. He’s so focused on it that he doesn’t notice, at first, when the door creaks open, and someone steps inside.

When he does notice, though, he pauses. Shiro lifts his head to look at them. They’re a guard, or at least they wear a guard helmet and uniform, but as the door thuds shut behind them, Shiro has his doubts. Nobody except Sendak goes into his cell, and even then, Sendak has others with him for security. This one is alone, and bizarrely, it’s much smaller than the others, maybe even a little shorter than Shiro.

Do they have a deathwish? 

Shiro’s eyes narrow. He can barely see the exposed lower half of their face in the shadows, but the taper of their jaw is sharp and the set of their mouth is grim. Shiro stands in a single fluid movement which seems to startle them, they step back against the closed door as he rises, still staring at them. His body may hurt, but it is all he has left, and if nothing else he has learned to control it as wholly as possible in and out of battle.

Shiro says nothing. Neither does the guard, and then, soft and hesitant, they whisper, “Takashi?”

Shiro freezes. None of them here know that name. They know  _ Shirogane  _ and his first initial from his flight suit badge, but they’ve never asked for more and Shiro wouldn’t tell them even if they did. But this one knows. How the  _ fuck –  _

He doesn’t realize he’s growled and started forward until the guard says again, “Takashi – wait, it’s me –” and reaches for their helmet.

The sudden movement is all Shiro sees and he reacts to it instantly, honed to do so by hundreds of fights where a single flinch can mean life or death. The guard has no time to move out of the way before Shiro is on them, grabbing them by the throat and slamming them against the opposite wall, where the door won’t rattle, where no one will hear their gurgling last breaths. 

But the movement knocks the helmet off, and Shiro finds his nose tucked up against soft black hair tied back in a loose braid, and falters, inhaling, his grip tightening in disbelief, fingers fumbling on their neck to wrench their jaw to the side so he can get a look at their face and –

It’s  _ Keith. _

Keith, but his skin is a muted lavender, and his irises gleam gold in the dark as he stares back at Shiro, and as he gasps for air Shiro can see the sharp curve of small fangs. Shiro releases him as if burnt. He  _ feels  _ burnt, scalded, as if someone has poured ice and boiling water over him all at once. 

“No,” Shiro whispers, small and horrified, “no – it’s a trick, it’s –”

“Shiro,” Keith whispers, turning around to face him, his face open, not afraid but... _ kind.  _ Shiro swallows, stumbling away, flooded with panic and confusion. “I know you’re afraid. I know. I’m sorry. But it’s not a trick. It’s really me, I’m really here.”

Shiro’s already shaking his head. “Stay away from me,” he breathes, shaky. “Please – don’t –”

Keith’s warmth doesn’t falter. His voice is so gentle when he says, “I’m not here to hurt you, Shiro. I’m here to help. Shiro, you…” He wavers, his calmness cracking, replaced briefly by a sorrow that Shiro feels in his bones. “You saved me so many times, Shiro. And now it’s my turn. Okay? Will you let me? Will you trust me, Takashi?”

It’s such a stupid question, Shiro almost laughs. Almost. But he can’t. He can barely even breathe, staring at Keith, a Keith who cannot possibly be anything but a hallucination or a cruel trick, but – but  _ it’s his voice. _ It’s the voice Shiro remembered, and the scent of the desert was in his hair, and – and – Shiro crumples to his knees, head in his hands. Is he finally losing it?

“Hey, shh, I’ve got you,” Keith murmurs, kneeling down in front of him, and then Keith’s hands are on his face, his palms warm and calloused and bigger than Shiro remembers. He blinks stupidly at Keith, this Keith he recognizes yet looks Galra, looks... _ older.  _

Shiro’s breath hitches. “If you’re really him,” he whispers, “then you’re not – you’re not him from  _ now,  _ are you?”

Keith slowly shakes his head. “No, Shiro. He – I – am back on Earth right now. But this isn’t  _ my  _ time. Do you understand?”

Shiro’s heart thuds against his ribs. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight,” Keith says, like a secret. He tilts his head, his thumbs stroking over Shiro’s cheekbones. “You’re thirty-two.”

Shiro’s head is spinning. “But – we’re six years apart –”

“Time is weird in space,” Keith replies.

“Wait,” Shiro says, halting, “I – I’m alive? In – in the future?”

Keith’s lips part. He leans a little closer. “Yes, Shiro,” he says. 

Shiro stares at him with mounting terror. “In – in here? I stay here for – for eight years, I –”

“No, no, Shiro, hey,” Keith says, “look at me. You get out. Okay? You escape. Soon. So, so soon. I promise.”

“I escape,” Shiro repeats, dazed.  _ “What?” _

“You get out,” Keith says, firm. “You get out, and you go back to Earth, and I find you.”

“But you – you’re –” Shiro breaks off, his gaze darting from Keith’s golden eyes to his sharp teeth to his pointed ears.

“Galra,” Keith agrees quietly, “yes. Half, anyway. I don’t know yet, back on Earth.”

“But you’re telling me  _ now,”  _ Shiro squeaks, “are you – is this – is time broken? _ Are you breaking time?” _

Keith’s brow creases. His lips quirk. “Shiro,” he chuckles, and something in Shiro sunders at the sound, “you majored in astrophysics, come on.”

Shiro blinks owlishly at him. “Yeah,” he says, faintly, “I did do that, huh?” He swallows, wets his dry lips. “But – but it didn’t prepare me for this. It didn’t prepare me for any of this.” His breath comes fast, shallow; he forces himself to calm, but how can he, when Keith is sitting in front of him, looking like a Galra, looking at him like  _ that? _

And then, in his panic, he becomes aware of something else, a smooth chill on his cheek, and when he turns his head to look he sees a gold ring glinting on Keith’s finger and his stomach somersaults. 

Keith sees him looking and hums. “I’ll answer as many questions as I can, Takashi, but...not here, okay? Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Shiro opens his mouth, closes it. Nods, bewildered, as Keith helps him to his feet and goes to the door. “The guards,” he starts.

Keith tilts his head, pausing on the threshold. “They aren’t here,” he says. “How does time travel work, Shiro?”

Shiro blinks. “You’re asking  _ me?” _

“Astrophysics,” Keith reminds him.

“I – I…” Shiro forces his brain to think, to really think about something other than just surviving. It’s hard, but – but not as hard as he expected. It’s like his mind  _ wants _ to do it, wants desperately to shift back into functioning as something more closely resembling a human. “Um...theoretically, time dilation could...work, but only for moving forwards in time, and you’re going back...assuming this isn’t all a fever dream.”

“Not a fever dream,” Keith assures him, and Shiro finds himself agreeing, because there’s no way he could make this shit up. 

“Okay,” Shiro croaks. “So...either time dilation, or maybe wormholes, or someone figured out some even weirder shit in quantum mechanics?” He hesitates. “I...I’m guessing wormholes, or there’s no way I would be so far from Earth.”

Keith makes a soft sound. “Yeah,” he murmurs, “you did say Sendak showed you that.”

Shiro falters. “By ‘you,’ you mean me, from the future, right? He – I know you’re here?”

“Of course,” Keith says. His eyes gleam in a knowing sort of way. Keith from the future is different, Shiro thinks with no small amount of wonder. Calmer, poised, confident. And he’s smiling. Shiro always had to really work to make Keith smile, but now...he tilts his head. It’s a good future, then. And he’s in it. He relaxes slightly.

“Did I tell you to visit me here?” Shiro whispers.

Keith nods. “He thought...you needed some company.”

Shiro barks out a laugh, rough, a little choked. It’s been a while since he made that sound. “Hah. Yeah. I was right.”

“Mm,” Keith says. “And it’s already happened for him – for you.” Shiro’s eyes widen. “He told me to tell you...the grandfather paradox doesn’t work and the photon experiments were right.” Keith shrugs.

“Holy shit,” Shiro breathes. “So – so then, this timeline...this is how it’s always been, how it was always supposed to be? Time self-corrects...wow.”

“Sure, guess it does,” Keith says. He’s smiling wider, though. “I’m going to open the door,” he adds. “You’re safe here, okay? Remember that. Stay close to me, if it helps.”

Shiro nods again. Maybe he stays closer than is strictly necessary when Keith opens the heavy door, but he’s developed a near-Pavlovian response to that door opening. It never means anything good.

This time, though, the door opens to an empty hallway. There are no other people, no other cells. They must be in some kind of singularity, a time caught between times...there is one other door – a door Shiro recognizes. It’s the door to his dorm at the Garrison. Keith watches him carefully as he starts towards it, heart in his throat. “Go on,” Keith murmurs, following close behind. “Open it.”

Shiro’s metal hand feels strange on the knob. It opens with the same annoying creak it’s always had, revealing his room – a single suite with an attached private bath that he fought tooth and nail for as a junior officer. It’s funny, in hindsight – he had wanted so badly back then to have his own space, a room of his own, and now he’s stuck in a dark cell on an alien spaceship. 

_No. Stop._ He shakes himself, takes a breath. He’s not there right now. He’s home, right now. Somehow. And maybe it’s not really his room in the Garrison, maybe it’s just a surreal pocket of time, an impossible singularity of his own making...but Keith is there with him, and he makes it feel like home. Wait. What?

Shiro’s just standing there, and he jumps when Keith slips into the room after him and lets the door creak shut. Through the windows, Shiro can see the stars. It’s night. Maybe, if they stay here long enough, he can see the sun again. He walks one step forward, two, stops. He’s trembling again, hyper-aware of his filthy, torn prisoner’s uniform and the blood still encrusting his hands, his face, his hair – it’s everywhere, too much blood to ever wash out.

Keith is beside him again, and this time he’s taking Shiro’s hand in his own, leading him to the bathroom. Shiro stumbles after him, shoulders hunched, head bowed even when they get onto the white tile and Keith asks if he needs help with his clothes. Shiro shakes his head and tries to peel the fabric away, but his arm aches, and the angle is awkward, and eventually he just gives up and gives Keith a sheepish look. 

Keith, to his credit, says nothing, just steps into his space and carefully starts removing the torn and bloodied rags. Shiro lets him, tries to hold still but winces when Keith brushes some old bruises and healing scratches from a particularly bad fight. When he’s gotten Shiro’s shirt off and tossed it aside, he makes a low sound and says, “It’s strange, I’ve only ever seen them as scars, not wounds.”

Shiro lifts his head in confusion. “You’ve seen my scars?” he says. “In the future?”

Keith, for the first time, looks suddenly flustered. “Ah,” he says, “yes. I mean – I’ve seen you shirtless. In the future. Plenty of times.”

“Plenty,” Shiro echoes. “I’m not...I don’t know, self-conscious?”

“Well, you’re not just taking your shirt off around just anyone,” Keith says, and stops.

Shiro peers at him. “Oh,” he says.

“That’s not to say – I mean, I think you’re very. Confident. About things.”

“About my body.”

Keith’s blushing, and Shiro isn’t sure why. “Uh. Yeah. Definitely.”

“Okay,” Shiro says. He looks down at himself. “I’m a fucking mess, but okay.”

“Hey,” Keith says. His brow creases. “You’re not. You’re the best man I know, Shiro, and you’re gonna be okay, and it’s not gonna be easy to get there but you deserve that, Shiro, to be okay. To be better than okay.” He looks like he’s going to say more, then stops. 

Shiro swallows the lump in his throat. “Thanks, Keith,” he whispers. “You do, too.” He hesitates and jerks his head in the vague direction of Keith’s hand. “So, who’s the lucky lady?”

Keith stares at him.  _ “Shiro,” _ he says. It’s both exasperated and accusatory. Shiro’s not sure what he did to deserve that tone.

“What?” Shiro demands. “I’m not – I mean, you  _ are  _ married, right? In the future? Can I ask that question?”

Keith pauses, fixing him with a stare that feels...different. More intense. “Why do you want to know the answer?”

What kind of question is that? Shiro frowns at him. “You’re my friend. I want to know who your spouse is. What, is it someone I know?”

Keith takes a step closer. They weren’t very far apart to begin with. Shiro isn’t quite sure what’s happening, but he doesn’t want it to stop. “Yes,” Keith says. “You know him. Very well, in fact.”

Shiro’s brain short-circuits at the glint in Keith’s eyes, the insinuation in his tone.  _ Him.  _ He’s –  _ wait.  _ Is  _ Keith _ – are  _ the two of them… _

Keith raises an eyebrow. “Figured out the answer, yet?”

“Keith,” Shiro breathes, his heart pounding anew, but for a different reason now. “Are we married?”

Keith’s eyes crinkle up at the corners. “And if we were?”

“I —” Shiro blinks. “That would be...nice,” he finishes, lamely.

Keith’s laughing at him with his eyes alone, Shiro is sure. “You think it’s weird.”

“Well, no, I —” Shiro stops himself. Because the truth is, yeah, on Earth he and Keith were just friends, and maybe there were a few moments where Shiro thought Keith maybe spent a little too much time with him, or clung to their friendship a little too closely, but sue him, Shiro never did anything to stop it. It was innocent, and Keith was his friend and so-called pilot protege, that was all. 

But here…Shiro doesn’t know. He’s lonely, maybe, but that’s not the whole truth. There’s a reason that Keith’s voice was the only one he could remember, the only one he had left. There’s a reason he recognized the scent of Keith’s hair, a silky earthen aroma that he remembers now from the one time Keith fell asleep beside him. It was the night before the launch, before he left, and Keith didn’t want to leave, and Shiro didn’t want him to leave. 

Adam had broken up with him only weeks earlier. Maybe Shiro was weak. Or maybe he was honest, when he fell asleep easier than he had in months with Keith in his bed. Nothing happened, of course. It wasn’t like that, but — but it was intimate, Shiro thinks. A different kind of intimate, but maybe one they both needed. And when he woke up, the natural space they’d placed between each other was broken, and Keith was curled to his side, his hair tickling Shiro’s nose, his face perfectly peaceful in sleep. And it felt right. Good, to wake up like that, with a boy Shiro knew damn well didn’t share the secret, softer sides of himself with anyone else.

So maybe Shiro loves him. But he never thought he would have this, a Keith from the future who looks at him like he holds all the answers to the universe with eyes which slowly fade from a glowing gold to the indigo Shiro knows. The lavender warms to a soft olive and Keith steps closer. It’s a shock when he lays his palm over Shiro’s bare chest, but not a bad shock. Shiro’s breath hitches.

“Let me take care of you,” Keith whispers, tilting his head up to Shiro’s. “I can’t save you from here, even though I wish I could, but…”

“Time won’t let you,” Shiro chuckles weakly, his senses hyper-focused on Keith’s touch. 

“Yeah,” Keith agrees, soft. “But you didn’t answer the question.”

“I don’t think it’s weird,” Shiro manages. Keith steps fully into his space and he shivers. “But — Keith, I don’t — I don’t want you to think of me differently.”

Keith’s lips part. “Shiro,” he murmurs, “don’t be afraid of that. I won’t. You and I...we’ve been through a lot.”

Shiro still hesitates. There’s a hot, heavy thrum simmering under his skin and his mouth tastes like metal and he doesn’t want to ruin this, but he doesn’t know if he can stop himself, either. “But you’ve only ever  _ heard _ what I was like, here,” Shiro says, slowly. “You don’t really  _ know.  _ I wouldn’t have really told you what this place made me into.”

“No,” Keith agrees. He doesn’t sound upset about it. “But I’m good at reading between the lines, Shiro. At least when it comes to you.” His fingers curl on Shiro’s skin. “And that doesn’t change anything, Shiro. I trust you.” He pauses, both shy and so serious when he says, “And I love you.”

“Yeah,” Shiro breathes. “I don’t – I don’t know if I love the you from now like that, not exactly, not yet, but – but, this…” Keith is breathtaking, standing before him, smiling sly and sweet like he knows precisely what effect this is having on Shiro. He probably does know. 

Keith hums. “Yes?” he asks, raising an eyebrow, and Shiro snaps. He can’t help it. It’s been so long since anyone touched him with anything other than malice, and now that someone has their hands on him, and it’s Keith – Shiro never stood a chance. He pulls Keith to him, stumbles forward until Keith crashes gently into the tiled wall, and Shiro kisses him hard, hungry, less of a kiss and more of a sloppy claim that he barely understands – all he knows is that it makes Keith groan and cling to him. 

The arch of Keith’s body is not pliant but unyielding, flexing muscle that has Shiro salivating, grinding against him too much, too fast, but maybe Keith was expecting this, because he’s already half-hard. Shiro breaks the kiss and meets Keith’s gaze and sees the feverish desperation he feels reflected in shining indigo. 

“You need a shower,” Keith says, hushed, and Shiro snorts before he can stop himself, then it turns into a full-blown cackle, and he has to lean forward and bury his head in Keith’s shoulder, laughing helplessly. Keith’s huff of answering laughter tickles his ear, and he strokes Shiro’s hair, holding him there, fingers curling around the nape of his neck.

“Yeah,” Shiro agrees, finally lifting his head, and letting Keith carefully remove the rest of his clothes, the bloodied leggings that fall into a pathetic little pile as soon as Shiro is bare. He doesn’t try to shield his body from Keith’s gaze even though every fiber of his being wants him to. Keith’s already seen everything, hasn’t he? It’s a weird thought, so Shiro doesn’t think it, doesn’t think anything at all as he stands there, hunched, and Keith turns on the shower.

The white noise of the water lulls him deeper into his empty head; Keith’s hand drawing on his wrist is what jolts him out of it. “C’mon, Takashi,” Keith says, and guides him into the cubicle. It’s strange, it doesn’t seem like the two of them should fit but this space, caught between time, doesn’t seem to care about that. They stand face to face. Keith’s stripped off his uniform, but his undersuit remains, black and soaked under the spray. It clings to him. Shiro’s mouth is dry as the water pounds over the two of them. 

But his hand – the left one, for this feels too vulnerable a place to touch with his right – goes not to Keith’s body, but to the slash across his left cheek. It’s faded; Shiro hardly noticed it in the shadows, and with strands of Keith’s hair curling into his face, but now the water plasters Keith’s braided hair to his skull and there’s no hiding the scar. Keith sucks in a breath when Shiro touches it, traces it with his thumb.

“Who hurt you?” he whispers. The voice doesn’t sound like his own. It’s distant, hollow, like an angry god. 

“Doesn’t matter,” Keith whispers back. He’s holding a soapy washcloth; Shiro has no idea where it came from. His focus is on Keith. He wants to kill whoever did this. It’s a sudden thought but not a shocking one. Killing comes so naturally to him now, after all. It would be easy. Or no, not easy. Shiro wouldn’t make it easy for them. He would make it hurt. It’s what they deserve –

Oh. That feels nice.

Keith scrubs at the bloodied mess on his left shoulder – Shiro can’t even remember what caused it, or when, but it seems fresh. It’s bruises, mostly, shallow cuts that bled too much. They bleed a little more when Keith scrubs too hard, turning the water pink as it runs down Shiro’s skin, but he doesn’t mind. He would take all the pain in the world and then some if it meant Keith would stay here, with him, a little longer. 

“When do you and I…” Shiro starts, stops. “Can I ask that?”

Keith doesn’t look up, wiping at dried blood across his ribs, a furrow between his brows. “A while,” he admits. “We’re both kind of stupid.”

“But – don’t I know, about us?” 

“Yes,” Keith says. “I mean, I’m here, aren’t I? But…”

“But?”

Keith glances up, then. “But we both have some shit to work out, first,” he admits. “Some of it we figure out together. Some of it…” He trails off, shakes his head. “But we get there, in the end.”

“That’s good,” Shiro says. He shifts, awkward, aching in more ways than one. He doesn’t know what he wants. He doesn’t know why, exactly, Keith is here now. “I’m sorry,” he offers.

Keith stops scrubbing. “For what?”

Shiro wrinkles his nose and the scar tugs painfully. “All of this,” he says, gesturing vaguely, to his arm, to the scars, to the blood-tinted water. “I don’t want another person to have to deal with this, too, but if he — if I told you about this, then you must know some of it, and God, I bet this mess fucked me up so much —”

“No.” Keith drops the washcloth, and when Shiro focuses on him, his eyes burn with more than just a golden glow. Shiro resists the urge to squirm under his stare. “Don’t apologize, Shiro. None of this is your fault. You have nothing to be sorry for. And don’t think for a second that you aren’t the best thing that ever happened to me. And all of this — do I wish you never had to go through this? Of course. But you did — you are. And  _ you’re still here, Shiro. _ Thank the stars, you’re still here. That’s what matters, Shiro. You hear me?”

Shiro swallows, nods. “Okay,” he whispers. 

“Say it,” Keith says, his hand suddenly warm on Shiro’s hip, drawing him closer. 

“I’m still here,” Shiro manages, unable to look away from him. He thinks his body should be reacting to the proximity, to the beautiful man in front of him, but he’s a strange collection of fragmentations and detached sensation, and to his shame he remains inert, numb.

But Keith doesn’t seem to mind. His hand on Shiro’s hip smooths down over his thigh, squeezes. His head tilts. “What do you want, Shiro?”

Shiro swallows hard. “I don’t know,” he whispers. It’s not a lie – he’s lost, truly. It’s been so long since anyone asked him that, much less meant it. 

Keith is undeterred. “Well,” he drawls, “I can keep helping you get washed up. Or I can suck your cock.” Shiro jerks, eyes wide, body flooding with molten want, and Keith’s mouth twitches. “Or we can leave the shower and just talk for awhile –”

“Can I suck _ your _ cock?” Shiro blurts, and Keith’s mouth hangs open, wordless. Shiro starts forward, and Keith doesn’t stop him as Shiro crowds him against the wall, struck once more with that greedy desire, a desire that’s different from any he’s felt before because he doesn’t know if he wants to fuck Keith or claim him.

It sounds bad, like that, and his mind struggles with the idea but it isn’t –  _ violence.  _ It’s different. It’s not that he wants to  _ hurt _ Keith, it’s that – he wants to make everyone know he’s Shiro’s, and that if they try to hurt him like they’ve hurt Shiro, then Shiro will gladly show them exactly what kind of monster they’ve created. 

“Shiro,” Keith gasps as Shiro’s hand closes around his throat again, but this time it’s tender, feeling the shape of his neck as it arches and his pulse leaps. “If you’re sure…”

“I’m sure,” Shiro murmurs, studying him, breathless at the sight of Keith in his grasp, because he’s letting Shiro do this, letting Shiro take him – no. Not take. Shiro’s grip gentles, his hand slides down Keith’s chest, fingers feeling out hardening nipples through the thin, wet fabric. He doesn’t want to take anything from Keith. Only give. Shiro makes a quiet sound. “Can I?” he asks again, voice small. “Will you let me, Keith?”

Keith’s breath is shallow. “Yes,” he says. “Shiro, yes,  _ anything _ – you can –”

“Don’t say that,” Shiro begs, even as he sinks to his knees, worshipful as he grabs Keith’s hips and presses his face between Keith’s thighs. “You don’t know what I want —  _ mm…” _

Keith’s hips shudder in his hands as Shiro opens his mouth, exhales over tenting fabric. “I know you want me,” Keith says, strangled when Shiro opens his mouth wider and nuzzles into Keith’s crotch, drunk off the scent of sweat and musk mixed with the clean smell of soap and something else, sweet and intoxicating. “I know you’ll be good to me.” Shiro looks up at that, a whine caught in his throat when Keith reaches down to card his fingers through Shiro’s hair, pushing the wet silver strands out of his eyes. “You’re always so good to me, Takashi.”

Shiro groans and fumbles with Keith’s undersuit before he finds the zipper in the front, and Keith must unzip the back, too, because then it’s all slipping down and Shiro groans louder, dizzy with want and even more desperate than before to swallow Keith down. His cock is thick and flushed dark over his thigh, curving up, and Shiro stares with fascination at the violet tint at the crown, which continues down in a few small ridges. They’re hardly noticeable, just enough to remind Shiro that Keith isn’t human. But he’s still Keith. He’s still Shiro’s Keith.

He leans in to mouth over the side of Keith’s cock, tongue darting out to taste, and Keith shudders above him, hand tightening into a fist in Shiro’s hair. The taste that blooms on Shiro’s tongue is startlingly sweet; thick beads of slickness drip down Keith’s cock like honey, and once Shiro gets a taste, he can’t seem to stop, licking long, shining lines over hardening flesh as it fills out and the violet flush deepens along the swelling length. 

Shiro’s eyes flutter shut, his mouth opening wider over the tip and sinking down. He wants it inside himself, and that’s an unexpected thought. It isn’t that Shiro doesn’t like bottoming – that would be a blatant lie – but here...he knows what the Galra do to some of their prisoners, or at least he’s put the pieces together. It’s part of the reason he’s let himself be so vicious, so untouchable and unpredictable. His reputation as a brute protects him from those special, awful kinds of violence. But not here, not with Keith. They both know Shiro isn’t that, isn’t the Champion they’ve forced him to be. 

Shiro squeezes his eyes shut tighter and lets his jaw relax, lips sliding over Keith’s cock as his lean hips lift off the tile and he moans, the first loud sound he’s made. Shiro hums and he makes the sound again, and it’s easy, after that, to lose himself in the dull roar of the falling water and the desperate noises pouring from Keith’s mouth as Shiro’s lips find the base and he feels his eyes water and throat ripple. Keith is heavy and hot on his tongue and it’s a good kind of drifting away from himself, because the sensation anchors him, as does the hand in his hair, and the taste of Keith, and the scent of him as his nose buries in dark curls. 

Shiro doesn’t know the exact moment that he forgets all his wounds, his scars, his bruises, but later he will think back and realize that all he felt then was a kind of quiet, blissful satisfaction because he could still be  _ good, _ he could still bring pleasure, not pain, and he could be good for Keith, Keith who moans his name and pets his hair in clumsy strokes as he comes down Shiro’s throat, cock pulsing sweet and endless. Shiro eventually pulls off, unable to swallow it all, cum running down his chin and from the corners of his lips, and when he looks up at Keith, Keith’s eyes are dark, pupils dilated and teeth sharp when he shoots Shiro a smile.

Shiro stands on shaky legs, but keeps a hand on Keith’s cock, jerking him through it, until Keith hisses and paws at him even as his cock begins to harden again. The ridges look...bigger, than before. Shiro stares at it, then at Keith. “Oh,” he says, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. “That’s new.”

Keith laughs, breathless, and wipes his cum off of Shiro’s face, smile falling away when Shiro grabs his wrist and sucks Keith’s messy fingers into his mouth instead. Keith’s fingers curl. “Fuck,” he whispers.

“Mm,” Shiro agrees, releasing his fingers to stumble away and lean against the opposite wall, his chest to the tile. “You should...” he says against the cold white smoothness, “fuck me.”

It’s a small cubicle, and it takes Keith barely a step to be at his back, but Shiro jolts nonetheless, his breath shortening. Keith tucks a kiss between his shoulder blades and Shiro shivers at the unexpected caress, then again when Keith’s palm presses to the curve of his ass. “Yeah?” Keith whispers. “That’s what you want?”

Shiro exhales, nods once, unsteady again. “Yes,” he whispers back. “Please.”

Keith kisses him again, this time on his shoulder, then his neck, then in the soft space just below his jaw that makes him squirm while heat flares low in his belly, finally coaxing his body into a confused flicker of arousal. It’s almost funny – he’s so conditioned to receiving pain that his nerves are struggling to figure out what’s happening, what’s the correct response, when Keith touches him. 

Shiro huffs out a low laugh and Keith makes a questioning sound. Shiro tries to explain it, but Keith doesn’t laugh, and when Shiro glances back at him, his brows are one dark, furrowed line and his mouth is frowning. Shiro cringes, before he realizes...Keith isn’t angry. He’s sad. Maybe a little angry, too, but not at Shiro.

“I told you I’m a mess,” Shiro adds, quietly. 

Keith hugs him. They’re both buck naked, and it should be weird, maybe – and yeah, Shiro can definitely feel Keith’s cock against his ass and Keith’s hands are squarely over his chest, calloused palms brushing his nipples and fingers grasping at his pectorals – but it’s also more wholesome than it has any right to be. Keith leans his head against Shiro’s back and murmurs, “I want you to feel good, Shiro. You deserve that. So, so much.”

Shiro swallows. “Then fuck me,” he repeats, grinding his ass back into Keith, biting his lip when he feels Keith’s cock twitch at the small of his back. 

Keith snorts. “Oh, I see. Not fucked out enough for the sweet talk yet, huh?”

Shiro hides his face in his forearm, braced against the tile. “Nah. Gotta try harder than that before I let you talk about feelings, baby.”

_ “Baby,”  _ Keith repeats, amused and pleased. Shiro’s ears grow hot. “Good to know that’s always been your favorite pet name for me.”

Shiro shifts back into him again. “I always thought it was kind of a weird pet name,” he admits. “But with you...dunno, it just...fits.”

“Hmm.” Keith rubs his hip, and then, to Shiro’s dismay, steps away. Shiro lifts his head, confused, only for Keith to say, “Stay where you are. Against the wall. Yes, just like that.”

Then Shiro hears the soft thud of Keith’s knees hitting the tile, shortly followed by the hot exhale of breath over his ass. His knees lock and Keith chuckles, low and dangerous. “Stay,” he reminds Shiro, and licks over his hole.

Shiro swears, widening the stance of his legs almost instinctively as Keith dives in again, less of a tease and more purposeful now, circling his tongue over Shiro’s rim in firm, maddening laps. Shiro shivers. It’s been –  _ a really fucking long time. _ Adam definitely didn’t like doing this, that’s for sure, but  _ Keith _ – god, Shiro never stood a chance.

That’s when he realizes that his cock has finally gotten the message and is hanging heavy and half-hard between his thighs, and Keith notices too, because he makes a pleased sound and wraps a hand around the base, stroking his cock slow and sweet until Shiro starts to leak and shift impatiently with both the steady strokes and constant press of Keith’s tongue. “Keith,” he groans, “c’mon –”

Instead of answering, Keith spreads Shiro’s ass and pushes his tongue inside with a low moan, licking deep into him with single-minded determination as Shiro cries out and narrowly resists punching the wall with his right fist, which probably wouldn’t end well. He settles with burying his face in both arms and rocking his ass back onto Keith’s face, struggling to remain standing, the shower a warm mist around them centered in the point of wet heat as Keith eats him out slow and sloppy. He’s savoring it, Shiro is sure, and it’s filthy enough to thrill him, cock twitching in Keith’s fist. Keith isn’t even stroking him anymore, just holding, and it’s as maddening as it is comforting. 

Shiro doesn’t mean to come when he finally does – it takes them both off guard; his hole flutters around Keith’s plunging tongue and then his cock is spurting against the tiles. His knees almost give out from under him, but Keith is there, giving Shiro’s hole one last, tender, kittenish lick before he’s on his feet again, holding up Shiro’s sagging form as he rides out the waves of shivering pleasure. “Good,” Keith murmurs, nosing into his hair, rubbing his waist, his chest, his still-spread thighs, “so good for me, Takashi.”

Shiro whines. “Keith,” he says, for he’s forgotten all other words. 

“I know, I know,” Keith promises, and he really does know, because then he’s pressing a finger inside of Shiro. It’s slick, from his own cock, Shiro realizes, and whines again, arching into it. Keith presses in up to the knuckle and adds another when Shiro lets out a frustrated grunt, tingling with oversensitivity but frantic to feel Keith in him, his hole clinging to Keith’s thrusting fingers. 

“That’s _ enough,”  _ Shiro snarls, doesn’t mean for it to be so harsh, but maybe that does something for Keith, because he groans and twists his fingers hard, crooks them  _ right,  _ and Shiro almost blacks out, toes curling, almost braining himself against the tiles when Keith tugs his fingers free and lines up his cock, the blunt nudge against Shiro’s hole alone enough to make him gasp and spread his legs wider.

“Needy,” Keith teases, but it’s soft, fond, like he knows Shiro can’t take anything with real bite to it right now – he’s been humiliated enough as it is already, thanks. Shiro feels open, vulnerable like this, but nothing about it is humiliating – it’s familiar, safe, a relief to be in Keith’s arms, to feel Keith fill him in a steady, relentless slide, both of them sighing when his hips press flush to Shiro. Shiro needs a second to just breathe, panting into his arm, teeth digging into his own skin in a kind of helpless reflex when Keith starts to move.

“Yes?” Keith asks, and he sounds breathless, too, but Shiro is pretty sure he’s winning in that respect. Every thrust feels like he’s been struck in the best way, because he doesn’t want to fight this battle; it’s all too easy to slump against the tile and surrender to the sensation. On every thrust, the ridges rub and tug and swell inside him, and it’s  _ weird  _ and  _ great _ and Shiro is so glad his husband is half alien and a total sweetheart, because now he’s trailing kisses over Shiro’s jaw, working his way to Shiro’s mouth, waiting for an answer with an expectant cant of his hips that makes Shiro moan a helplessly pleased,  _ yes, yes _ in reply. 

Keith smiles and guides him into a kiss, and Shiro doesn’t even think of not returning it. The shower makes everything slippery, and there’s water in Shiro’s eye and the squelch of Keith fucking him is loud and obscene but Shiro wouldn’t have it any other way. He manages to lift a hand away from the wall to grab at Keith’s hair, his braid quickly undone by Shiro’s tugging fingers, falling in shining black waves around his face, soaked into an iridescent sheen under the water. 

Keith’s hips slap his ass as he speeds up, hard fucking offset by their languid kisses and the tenderness of their hands on each other. Shiro’s not going to come again for a while yet, or at least, that’s what he thinks – then Keith pauses, adjusts the angle, and slams into his prostate, and Shiro breaks away from the kiss with a startled keen, and Keith does it again, and again, and Shiro crumples against the wall, spine bowed, cock dripping though it’s barely half-hard as Keith milks another orgasm from him with a devastating smile and a soft, “You can do it, Takashi,” in his ear.

It’s just as well, because Keith comes soon after, and barely slows down, growling into Shiro’s shoulder with an overwhelmed little jerk of his hips before starting up a slow grind again, and ah,  _ fuck, _ he feels  _ bigger,  _ and Shiro hisses curses through his teeth before shoving back onto his cock – he’s gonna take whatever Keith gives him, after all. Keith catches the hint and catches Shiro’s hips in a bruising grip. His nails dig in, but they’re sharper than nails, and Shiro makes a sound he doesn’t mean to at the ragged rake of ten claws, panting open-mouthed. 

Each thrust aches, blooms within him into an insistent burn that has them both careening towards a final edge, Keith’s breath hot on his neck before his lips touch skin, followed by the sting of teeth, fastening into the meat of Shiro’s shoulder as Keith’s cock floods him with thick heat for the second time. The sudden prick of fangs shocks Shiro into climax soon after, and when he comes back to himself, Keith is hugging him again. Shiro can feel his heartbeat against his back, and exhales, opening his eyes and blinking away the water, the burn fading to soreness as Keith slowly eases out of him. 

Cum drips down Shiro’s thighs and he stretches, looking over his shoulder at Keith, unsurprised to see a golden glow flicker in his irises and a smear of bright blood at the corner of his mouth where  _ he bit Shiro.  _ Hmm. Maybe future Shiro didn’t tell Keith  _ everything _ about this place, but Keith knows a few of his nastier secrets, after all.

“I already know you’re amazing,” Keith says, something absurdly shy in his tone, “but, wow.”

Shiro flushes, stepping away from the wall and advancing on him. He’s not quite done with this place, yet. “You’re one to talk, baby.”

Keith’s breath hitches and Shiro’s eyes narrow. Yeah, the pet name fits, alright. “Really?” Keith chuckles when his back hits the tiles. “Insatiable, are we?”

In reply, Shiro rubs at the smudge of blood, thumb swiping over Keith’s lower lip, and Keith quiets. “Turn off the shower,” he murmurs. Keith gulps, fumbling with the dial before it shuts off. The air is cold and still around them, and Shiro can hear Keith’s breaths.

“What do you want?” Keith asks again, tilting his chin up, lashes star-shaped and wet. His mouth is red, swollen. Shiro traces it, thoughtful. “Finally going to accept my first offer?”

“Quiet,” Shiro says, and Keith blinks, brow furrowing, but dutifully closes his mouth and keeps it that way. Shiro considers him. He really meant  _ anything,  _ didn’t he? But…

“Do we have a word?” Shiro asks, halting, hoping Keith knows what he means.

Keith’s eyes glint with understanding. “Yes,” he breathes, and leans in, whispers the word in Shiro’s ear, quick but clear. 

“And you’ll use it,” Shiro says, “if you need to…”

“Shiro,” Keith whispers, the affection in his eyes as endless as the Universe, “you know I will – but for the record, I’ve never needed to use it. Because it’s you.”

Shiro’s heart leaps, and he slowly allows himself to relax, even as he reaches again for Keith, and this time lifts him clean off the floor. Keith squeaks, legs wrapping tight around Shiro’s hips as Shiro hauls him out of the shower. He may be sore, but he’s had a lot worse, and for once he enjoys the strength in his newly bulky, muscled body, forged out of necessity for survival – but now, he thinks, he can put it to much better use. 

Maybe Keith thinks so, too, because he’s rutting against Shiro’s abdomen, purpling cock sliding over the preexisting mess on Shiro’s chiseled stomach, getting the coarse trail of hair there even stickier. Shiro growls at him, but Keith is undeterred. He’s a little  _ too  _ eager to fall into the role of needy brat. Shiro kind of loves it.

Who is he kidding? He really, _ really _ loves it, because he  _ really, really _ loves Keith. 

But he’s not sure he’s thinking about love when he throws Keith onto the bed, and he’s not sure Keith is thinking of it either when he lands with a bounce and immediately scrambles up to kneel at the head of the bed, watching Shiro with a predator’s grin. Yeah, Shiro should’ve known he wouldn’t make this easy. But, after all, that’s not what Shiro wants. He likes a fair fight. 

Shiro crawls onto the bed and faces him, sitting back on his heels with a low, warning sound. Keith’s eyes flash, and he tilts his head, wrapping a hand around his own cock with a smug smile. “Yes?” Keith asks, tone entirely different now, no longer soft and kind but edged with something cruelly sweet.

“Keith,” Shiro warns again, “come here.”

Keith stays put. “Nah,” he drawls. “I like it here. You’ve got nice pillows.” He grinds down onto one of them.

“Was that a tits joke?” Shiro asks mildly, struggling to keep a straight face.

Keith’s mouth twitches, and then he’s breaking into uncontrollable giggles, trying to smother them in his palm and failing. “Maybe,” he wheezes, “fuck, you do have nice –  _ ah!” _

Shiro yanks him down the bed and onto his back by his ankle, and Keith bucks under him, against Shiro’s iron grip on his wrists as he presses them down into the soft pillows above his head. Shiro shoves his knee between Keith’s legs, grinding into his balls, and Keith goes still, worrying his lower lip between his sharp little teeth. “You were saying?” Shiro murmurs.

“Don’t know,” Keith gasps, “what I was saying –  _ mmpphh...” _

“Quiet,” Shiro reminds him, right hand over his mouth, Keith’s parted lips warming the cold, wet metal. “Remember?”

Keith nods, halting, and when Shiro lifts his hand away, his only sound is his labored breaths. Shiro eyes him. “Maybe I’ll just have to give you something else to do with your mouth.” 

Keith blinks, his eagerness palpable. Shiro considers, then decides he’s overthinking this and pushes a pillow under Keith’s head before promptly straddling Keith’s chest and watching as understanding sinks in. Keith’s chest vibrates with a groan under him that deepens when Shiro takes his cock in hand and rubs it over Keith’s parted lips until they’re tacky and shining. Keith’s tongue darts out to taste and Shiro smacks his cock against Keith’s mouth in sharp admonition. Keith’s eyes widen. His lips part further.

“Open,” Shiro orders, and the gratification he feels when Keith does so instantly and without question is indescribable. “I’m gonna fuck your face, baby,” he promises, “and you’re gonna take it until you come, and then I’m gonna fuck you.”

Keith’s slow blinking turns confused, at least until Shiro rolls his eyes and turns around, until he’s nearly sitting on Keith’s face, facing Keith’s cock, and Keith’s moan tickles his flexing thighs. He’s still moaning when Shiro feeds his cock into Keith’s waiting mouth, and he groans at the greeting Keith’s tongue provides, licking at his cock as enthusiastically as he did with Shiro’s hole. 

Shiro doesn’t waste time with testing Keith’s limits. He can take it. He better take it, because Shiro’s cock is already hitting the back of Keith’s mouth, nudging at his throat, and he can hear the wet noises as Keith tries to take him deeper. Shiro scoffs and fucks into his mouth until Keith chokes, hands flying up to claw at Shiro’s thighs. Shiro doesn’t back down, keeps his cock buried deep and his weight smothering Keith until Keith starts to go pliant under him. 

Shiro leans forward, freeing him, and Keith gasps in air around Shiro’s cock, and the best part of it all is that Keith is still so hard his cock is twitching every time Shiro’s cock cuts off his air, even if for only a moment. Shiro gives it a few cursory licks and kisses, but bypasses it with the goal of seeing just how sensitive Keith’s balls are and possibly returning the favor of eating him out — but he stops when he lifts Keith’s balls and finds something unexpected. Where Keith’s taint should be is another hole, small and hidden behind the swell of his balls and cock but when Shiro exhales over it, the folds of flesh start to thicken in what must be arousal. The flesh is purplish, a shade lighter than his cock, and glistens with a slickness that’s even sweeter and thicker when Shiro leans in to taste.

Maybe he should have asked, because Keith jerks violently under him at the touch of his tongue there. Shiro lifts his head with a questioning sound, glancing back over his shoulder. Keith’s mouth is stuffed full of cock but his eyes are huge and frantic and his face is red and there’s nothing in his demeanor that says  _ stop,  _ especially when his hips jump off the bed and another trickle of honeyed fluid drips from his hole. Galra thing, probably, Shiro thinks, and accepts it happily as he buries his face in it.

Keith’s fangs graze Shiro’s cock and he barely notices; that’s how obsessed he is with the taste flooding his senses and the musk of Keith’s body surrounding him. He licks into swollen folds and a clenching channel of silky flesh that opens under his curious tongue, and Shiro doesn’t even know if it’s possible, doesn’t know if there’s any way to fit, but he wants to fuck Keith here, until he’s crying for it. 

He lifts his head enough to tell Keith this and gets a shaky moan around his cock in response. Keith’s barely trying to suck or lick anymore, just opening his throat to Shiro’s lazy thrusts, sheathing Shiro’s cock in delicious warmth and letting out desperate noises around it. Shiro rewards him by plunging a finger into his hole alongside his tongue, fascinated by Keith’s strangled cry and the way purple folds fatten further, the tight channel widening as Shiro works him open. 

Keith’s cock looks hard to the point of pain but Shiro doesn’t touch it, just adds another finger when Keith starts to whine and shake, and it’s not long after that before he’s suckling at Shiro’s cock while riding Shiro’s face, smearing wetness all over his mouth and chin when his hole suddenly clamps down on Shiro’s two fingers and Keith moans loud but muffled, claws scratching at Shiro’s thighs again. But he’s not trying to push him away — he’s pulling Shiro closer, like he _ wants _ to be suffocated by Shiro’s cock and thick thighs. 

“Did you come, baby?” Shiro asks, getting his answer when he traces the slack, shivering opening with his tongue and Keith whimpers, trying and failing to squirm away. “Uh-uh, stay still.” He shuffles back around, his cock slipping from Keith’s mouth, soaked in drool and twitching at the sudden lack of friction, impatient to come. Keith watches it, eyes hazy with need. “Show me where you want me, baby,” Shiro coaxes, and Keith groans, but reaches down to grab his own thighs and spread them wide, exposing both holes to Shiro’s hungry gaze. Shiro bets he finds a way to fuck them both in the future, but for now...Keith’s fingers brush purple folds and the gape of that hole is unmistakably needy.

“Please,” Keith rasps, and it’s the sound of his wrecked voice that sets Shiro off, makes him growl over the sheer  _ ruin  _ of it as he rubs his cock over slippery folds before fucking in, deep, giving Keith no time to adjust before he’s filled and pounded into the bed. Keith screams, a ragged and hoarse cry that echoes in Shiro’s ears as he covers Keith’s body with his own, hitches his legs up around his ears, and fucks him raw and  _ brutal.  _

There’s no other word for it, no gentleness in the way he uses Keith’s body, chasing his own gnawing pleasure. Keith shouts when Shiro pins his wrists to the bed again, nearly folding Keith in half with the force of each thrust, the mattress creaking under them. 

Shiro pulls back to admire how wide he stretches Keith open, puffy lilac petals spread and shivering around his girth. Keith is so wet that slickness leaks out and coats Shiro’s cock, Keith’s inner thighs, the sheets; Shiro doesn’t know if he’s coming again or if he never stopped. His mouth hangs open and when Shiro reconsiders their position and yanks Keith up into his lap to sit on his cock instead, Keith lets out a whining cry and arches, head falling back, cock caught between them and clawed hands braced on Shiro’s shoulders. 

Shiro controls the pace, gripping Keith’s hips to slam him down onto his cock in a steady bounce, and Keith only cries out louder, stark lines of muscle standing out in gorgeous definition as he takes it, takes everything Shiro gives him, gasping Shiro’s name when Shiro grabs his hair in his fist and  _ yanks, _ forcing his head back so he can lean in to suck bruises over Keith’s pale throat and then to close his right hand around it, squeezing as Keith writhes in his lap, lashes fluttering and eyes glassy. 

The intrusive thought that he could break Keith like this, snap him in two or else twist his neck in a second, makes Shiro falter. He knows he isn’t going to do that – but he  _ could. _ And Keith knows he could, too. But Keith knows he  _ won’t.  _ Keith  _ trusts him not to.  _ It’s overwhelming, that trust. Shiro groans and kisses him, licking into Keith’s slack mouth before finally releasing his throat, capturing Keith’s greedy breaths on his tongue. 

He feels the tension build in Keith’s body and he pulses inside before his cock follows, making a mess of their stomachs as Shiro relinquishes his hold to guide him down to the bed and kiss him slow and deep, right hand sliding down from his bruised neck to jerk his cock to completion. Keith wraps tight around him, shuddering and sighing and it’s this sound of complete satisfaction that brings Shiro to climax within him, burying his face in Keith’s damp hair and inhaling, vowing to memorize the scent because he knows that someday, he will have it within his grasp again, and this time for good. 

He’s probably crushing Keith slightly, but Keith doesn’t seem to mind, and in fact wraps an arm around his waist, keeping him right there on top of him, inside of him. They lay there in warm silence for a while, a mess of sweat and limbs and tender stubbornness. 

“He misses you,” Keith tells him, softly, like a secret. “The me from right now, I mean.”

Shiro opens his eyes, lifts his head to look into dark indigo. “Is he alone?” he whispers, hoping Keith knows what he means.

Keith hums. “No,” he says. Of course, Keith knows exactly what he means.

Shiro tucks his face back into the crook of Keith’s neck. “Good.”

Keith makes a quiet sound. “We can stay here as long as you want,” he murmurs, “but…”

“Not forever,” Shiro agrees. “I know. Time is weird.”

“Time is very weird,” Keith agrees, his fingers absentmindedly tiptoeing down Shiro’s spine. “Do you know why I decided to visit you today, of all the days, Shiro?” Shiro blinks. He thinks hard about it, then finds it’s difficult to think of much of anything like this, sprawled out over Keith as he is. Keith just chuckles and strokes his hair. “Happy birthday,” he says. “You’re twenty-five.”

“Ah,” Shiro says, and rolls off of him to stare at the ceiling. His gaze strays to one of the plastic glow-in-the-dark stars he stuck up there when he first moved in and could never manage to get off. It’s placed at true North, because if Takashi Shirogane is one thing, it’s a huge nerd. Some things never change. “Huh. That’s...it’s a Leap Year?”

“Yes.” Keith nestles into his side, just like he did on that night at the Garrison. Well, okay. Definitely not  _ just _ like that. They’re both several more shades of fucked up since then, their clothes have mysteriously vanished, and they’ve got cum slash questionable alien juices more or less everywhere. 

Shiro realizes he’s smiling. It’s probably a goofy smile, and he probably looks pretty ridiculous, but Keith is smiling at him, so that’s okay. “I can’t believe I missed your eighteenth.”

Keith shakes his head and shifts closer, laying his head on Shiro’s chest with a content sigh. “You won’t miss my nineteenth,” he replies. “You’ll be there, and you know what?”

Now that he’s remembered how to smile again, Shiro can’t seem to stop. “Hm?”

“We try to make cake together and it’s a mess,” Keith admits. “It’s cake for both of us. For your birthday, too. You complained that Sendak didn’t think to make you one.”

“What an inconsiderate bastard,” Shiro replies, giddy. “Luckily I got a much better gift and there’s nothing he can do about it.”

“Nope,” Keith agrees. “Not a damn thing.”

“Did the cake at least taste good?” Shiro asks. 

Keith chuckles. “You know? It wasn’t half-bad, honestly. Just looked more like a crater than a cake.”

Shiro looks down at him, and Keith tilts his head up to meet his gaze. “I can’t wait to make that disaster cake with you, Keith,” he whispers, and he meant it as a joke, but it comes out painfully honest, and he can’t stop his voice from breaking.

Keith reaches up and cups his cheek. Shiro leans into it to kiss his palm. “You can wait,” Keith promises. “And it won’t be easy, and I wish you didn’t have to, but Shiro, I know you can because what you’re waiting for – it’s worth it, in every way.” His eyes shine. “You are worth it, Takashi. Don’t ever forget that.”

Shiro swallows. “Do I ever stop being the Champion?” he asks.

Keith smiles, takes Shiro’s right hand in his own and squeezes. “You stop being  _ their  _ Champion,” he replies. “But, I don’t think you ever really were. Are you?”

The strength Shiro feels then has nothing to do with his physical form and metal arm and everything to do with the star on the ceiling and the man in his embrace. “No,” Shiro agrees. “I was never theirs and I never will be.”

Keith settles back down beside him. “That’s the Shiro I remember,” he says, with a pride that glows in the air between them. 

Shiro gathers it up and lines all the splintered parts of himself with its brilliance. He’s going to need it, but he knows he couldn’t have asked for any better armor.

“Let’s stay here a little longer,” he suggests quietly.

Keith hums his sleepy assent. “Sure, just give me a few minutes…”

Shiro huffs and throws his arm over Keith’s waist, curling in close to him and kicking halfheartedly until the sheets settle over them. “I don’t want to stay to do  _ that,”  _ he says. “Just to hold you. And sleep. For a while, maybe.”

Keith kisses his chest, right over his heartbeat. “Anything,” he reminds Shiro. “I’ll be here when you wake up. For as long as you need me. Yeah?”

“Yes,” Shiro says, and holds him tight, and knows he’s never going to forget the stars when he has indigo eyes to remember them by. 


End file.
